He got me a Stevie.

Ever since losing Charlie at 7 months at the end of June, I have been whinging, incessantly and maybe understandably so. I can be found in the Toddler clothes area of Tesco when I should be choosing Cauliflowers. I can be found fiddling with buttons of baby Parkas and go slightly misty-eyed, before saying 'Fuck it!' and scare a few mothers around me in the process.

We have been trying. In fact, last month I was late by a week and I was, to put it simply, fucking excited. I casually bought a pregnancy test kit and chucked it in the basket along with my Vaseline pot of awesomeness lip balm, a few panty liners, a bottle of Aussie conditioners and went to pay. It was when Jaz stepped up to the counter to pay for it that he saw it and he looked at me. And I saw Fear. It took me back to that time when the midwife said there was no heartbeat. It was that look there. This man who is about to pay for my pantyliners is scared.

We went back and I pissed on a stick and sat on the bed after I pissed on the stick.

The stick told me, in Parseltongue, 'Yoooooou aaaaaare pregnaaaaant aaaaaas per theeee window riiiiiight theeeeeere.' I was happy. I was over the roof.

Jaz left the room and I didn't see him for over an hour. I was happy. Then I was sad. Then I was angry. Then I was scared. Then I played with Josh's dog and her puppies and I was alright. Then he came back in. By then I wasn't happy to tell him the news any more. I just wanted to sit and play with puppies and not look at him. He sat next to me and asked, 'So you're pregnant then, yeah?' That made me flinch then. I will never get that joy of being pregnant, will I? We will always be plagued by fucking fear. Fuck him for being a bloke and not knowing the right things to say. Fuck him for not knowing that I really wanted that scene in my head where we both jump up for joy and kiss each other silly. Fuck him for making this such a sombre scene. So I said, 'Yeah. The piss stick said so. But hey, me having a child won't tie you to me forever. I can fuck off back home and raise my child on my own. I don't need you and your stupid face like that.'

See, I will always be a stupid, fucking, petulant child who suffers from verbal diarrhoea.

That resulted in him walking out again, spending hours away from me. Hours with his music, away from me, possibly spinning his decks chanting 'Fuck her, insensitive fucking cow.' over and over again.

He came back in and I said Sorry, and he said What are you sorry for, silly? and that just means 'I am glad you are sorry but I am a Zen Buddhist and stuff and I'm cool like that so I'll just watch you be sorry and stuff and learn from your mistakes. Ohhhhhhhmmmm.'

Then we kissed and made up and he gave me a half of his Snickers bar. He's a chocoholic and that act spoke volumes.

Then he told me that he wasn't trying to be a prick and that he was just scared. I said I am just as scared too. It wasn't as though my life ambitions were to keep having stillborns. It wasn't like I woke up every morning saying 'Oh wow, wouldn't it be nice to go to my own kid's funeral today?'. It wasn't like when I discovered I was pregnant I said 'Oh yes, I can't wait for this to die either.' Forgive me for being morbid, but that was exactly it. I have to say it as it is, don't I? No point pussy-footing around the man who had seen everything of me.

But then, a week later, I started getting my period. Was the piss-stick broken? I should sue Superdrugs for getting my hopes up. It was broken, wasn't it? Doesn't help that we were spending the week with Jaz's kids and I had to keep sneaking to the loo to just fucking weep and tell him, 'I think I'm broken, you know. How can we shag so much and not get pregnant? I think I'm broken.' And then he said, 'Maybe I'm broken.' and we spent hours arguing who is broken. No me, nooooo me. Naaaaah, me! I win! I'm broken.

Maybe I miscarried? I'm broken.

When we got back from spending time with the kids, we came back, he took one of Josh's puppy and said, 'This is ours, yeah?'

He got me a Stevie.

Maybe it's his way of saying, 'Okay, we're both broken. Let's try to not break this puppy, okay?'

Look at her face, my little demon. Look at my fucking fake lashes. Look at her face, my little Stevie. My little bipolar little shit who has gone through pairs of fucking sandals in the space of weeks. She smells gorgeous. She smells of that bottle of baby oil that she up-ended on herself when she head-butted the dresser repeatedly.

I'm teaching her commands in Parseltongue these days.

Ssssssstevieeeeeee, ssssssssit you little sssssssshit.